Seven days of non-stop rain gives me an excuse to use the fireplace, my thick blanket and hot coco powder in danger of approaching expiration. Bunny hops around on the new wood floor. She slips and slides when she thinks the boy is chasing her but purrs when she is finally caught. When I pet her, she leaves behind threads of silky white hair that pops against the antique wood finish like traces of spring snow. I take my time cleaning it up.
We stretch achy muscles and hit the beach when the sun finally returns. The water takes on shades of aqua, unbroken by summer crowds. Surf is small, just right for not-so-brave hearts like mine and those nearby. The water has a way of waking you like a piercing splash of blue light across the dark. You inhale until it hurts. Then some more. Under the surface of tugging waves is the sound of silence.
The songs you once loved but no longer listens to makes you smile and cry. You make enough food for an army and share it with friends who don't mind seeing you ragged with choppy hair and old clothes. In the morning you go for a jog along the horizon, taking photos with the lens of your lashes when morning light paints the world in cotton candy pinks and blues. The rusty old swing sings when childish feet kicked it high, an old song of squeaky screws fighting to hold all the pieces together.